“Whoever sent that message is,” Nancy said. “Maybe
we can . . .”
Just then the door to SportsMania was pushed open,
and a man wearing a yellow parka hustled in. His eyes
zeroed in on C.J., and Nancy got only a quick glimpse
of his tanned face and white-blond hair before he lifted
a camera and began snapping off photos.
“Excellent, excellent,” he murmured, circling C.J. to
get shots from different angles. “Just act natural. These
are going to look great.”
Nancy blinked into the blasts of light that flashed
from the camera.
“You know this guy, C.J.?” she asked.
C.J. opened his mouth to answer. Before he could
get a word out, Mr. Lorenzo stormed out from behind
the counter.
“Hey, you can't barge into my store and harass cus-
tomers,” he snapped. His jaw clenched as he reached
out, grabbed the man by the collar, and yanked him
toward the door.
“I'm a reporter,” the man objected, his camera
banging against his chest as he tried to twist free. “I'm
here on assignment. C.J., tell him!”
Mr. Lorenzo kept a firm grip on the man's collar.
“You reporters are the lowest life-forms,” Mr. Lorenzo
muttered angrily.
The reporter blinked, straining against Mr.
Lorenzo's insistent pushing. “What?”
“Mr. Lorenzo, stop.” C.J. jumped forward, blocking
the store owner's path to the door. “He's telling the
truth. This is Randy Cohen. He's here to do an article
on me for Sports World.”
Mr. Lorenzo took a few deep breaths, as if he were
trying to calm down. At last he let go of the reporter's
collar, but he continued to stare at Randy with an in-
tensity that surprised Nancy.
That computer threat must have affected Mr.
Lorenzo more than he let on, she thought.
“A profile in Sports World?” George said, arching an
eyebrow at C.J. “I'm impressed.”
Shaking himself, Randy smiled at George and said,
“Once people read my article, C.J. will be the hottest
athlete in winter sports.”
“Awesome,” Ned commented.
Randy checked his camera, then reached into his
jacket pocket and pulled out a notebook and pen. “I'll
be like C.J.'s shadow for the next few days while I get
material for the article,” he said.
“This won't get in the way of the Clues Challenge,
will it?” C.J. asked.
“The treasure hunt you told me about?” Randy
shook his head. “Trust me. You'll hardly know I'm
there.”
“I'm starved!” George commented a few hours later,
her breath cloudy puffs in the cold night air as she
headed into town. “You said the restaurant is close by,
right, Ned?”
Ned wrapped his scarf around the collar of his
parka, then pointed ahead. “This path comes out on the
main street, up there where those lights are. The
Eatery is one of the first places we'll come to. They
have a big room in the back where we always have the
pre-challenge dinner. C.J. and Grant said they'd meet
us there.”
“Just hearing you guys talk about dinner makes my
stomach growl,” Nancy said. “But I keep thinking . . .”
“About that message you saw on Mr. Lorenzo's
computer?” Ned guessed.
Nancy nodded. “If someone is pressuring him to
hand over the clues and answers, it must be one of the
contestants. Someone who will be at dinner tonight.”
“Or,” George said as their boots crunched over the
frozen ground, “maybe the threat wasn't serious, like
Mr. Lorenzo said.”
Nancy hoped George was right.
“Mmm. I smell pasta!” George sniffed appreciatively
as she, Ned, and Nancy followed the maitre d' through
the main dining room. A hallway at the rear led past
the kitchen door and an alcove with a pay phone and
rest rooms into a spacious back room.
“Nice,” Nancy said, glancing at the large round ta-
bles and the abstract paintings that hung on the walls.
Almost every chair was filled, and the walls echoed
with chatter and laughter. Nancy didn't see C.J., but
Grant waved to them from across the room.
You're just in time,” Grant said, nodding toward two
waiters who pushed through the kitchen door with
platters of ravioli. “It looks like the first course is here.”
“About time,” said a guy who sat to the left of Grant.
He had dark hair that curled over the collar of his
corduroy shirt and a look of boredom in his big brown
eyes. Grant introduced the guy as Dennis Garcia, from
Sigma Pi. Two other Sigma frat brothers, red-haired
twins named Philip and Jake, were also at the table.
“Are you excited about the Clues Challenge?”
George asked Dennis as she sat down next to him.
Dennis leaned back to make room for their waiter to
plunk down a platter of ravioli and a pitcher of soda on
the table. “Excited, no. It'll be a piece of cake
compared to facing off against Midwest conference
football teams,” Dennis said, once the waiter left.
“I forgot to mention that Dennis is Emerson's top
quarterback,” Ned explained. “He was, anyway, before
he injured his shoulder and had to be put on the
disabled list.”
Nancy didn't miss the cocky smile that spread across
Dennis's face. He obviously was a lot less bored now
that everyone was talking about how great he was.
“You're not afraid of reinjuring your shoulder in the
Clues Challenge?” she asked him.
“I can handle it.” Dennis's eyes were filled with
confidence as he reached for the soda. “Like I said, the
Clues Challenge is peanuts compared to what a
quarterback faces when . . .”
All of a sudden he stopped talking, his eyes fixed on
something behind Nancy. The room had gotten noisier,
and when Nancy turned around she realized why.
“It's C.J. and Dede and their one-man press en-
tourage,” said Ned, who flicked a thumb at Randy
Cohen. “Doesn't that guy ever put his camera down?”
Hoots and calls rang out from one of the other
tables. Looking over, Nancy saw Dede's Kappa Rho
sisters waving Dede and C.J. over. Randy sat down
with them, pulled his notebook out, and started
writing.
“Show-off,” Dennis grumbled.
“Jealous?” Grant teased.
Apparently Dennis didn't see the humor. Glowering,
he got to his feet and threw his napkin on the table. “I
need some fresh air,” he muttered.
“What's his problem?” George asked as Dennis
disappeared down the hallway.
“Dennis has a thing about C.J.,” Ned said. “Dennis
and Dede went out on a few dates. But once she met
C.J. . . .”
“I get the picture. Dennis hasn't forgiven C.J. for
stealing his girlfriend,” Nancy said.
“Or his top-jock status,” Ned added.
The red-haired twins from Dennis's frat shrugged
uncomfortably. “Dennis is a great athlete,” said one of
them. “But no reporter from Sports World ever wrote
an article about him.”
He leaned back as the red-faced waiter placed two
platters of fried chicken in front of them.
“All I know is, the Clues Challenge is the biggest
blast of the winter,” Grant said, reaching for a couple
of wings. “I'm not going to let Dennis wreck it for me.”
“I'll second that!” George agreed.
* * *
For the next hour Nancy was too busy eating and
talking to everyone about the Clues Challenge to think
about Dennis. She and George met so many people, it
was hard to keep them all straight. Nancy recalled
meeting someone named Hanna from Joy's sorority, as
well as another Sigma Pi frat brother—a guy named
Malik, who had dark skin and braids.
People floated from table to table, and the room
echoed with teasing challenges about who would win.
By the time dinner was finished, Jake and Philip had
migrated to the far side of the room, and Dede, C.J.,
and Randy had joined Nancy, George, Ned, and Grant
at their table.
“Can I get some quiet, please?” Mel Lorenzo called.
He had floated from table to table while everyone ate.
Now, he stood next to Joy's table and tapped a glass
with a spoon.
Nancy noticed Dennis behind him, at the end of the
hallway to the main dining room. He was leaning
against the brick wall, his arms crossed in front of his
chest.
“I'll keep the motivational speech short,” Mr.
Lorenzo said. “I hope you all ate a lot, because you're
going to need every ounce of muscle power and brain
power you have during the next two days.
“Remember, the challenge runs from sunup to
sundown tomorrow and Sunday,” he went on. “We
meet at the foot of the bell tower tomorrow morning at
sunrise. I blow the whistle precisely at five-thirty.
That's when you race for the first clue, at the top of the
tower. Just to remind you, all the clues will be inside
containers like this one.”
He held up a plastic snowflake container about four
inches in diameter. Its two plastic halves were hinged
together.
Mr. Lorenzo put the container back on the table,
then stepped to the side as the waiters came into the
room with custardlike desserts.
“Man, oh, man. That looks good,” Mr. Lorenzo said,
eyeing the dessert. “Just a few more things. First, all
searching for clues must be done outside. If there's a
clue on a building . . .”
“Is there?” called out one of Dennis's teammates,
the guy with braids who was named Malik.
Mr. Lorenzo shook his head. “You know I can't an-
swer that. Like I said, if there's a clue on or near a
building,” he said, resuming his speech, “you have to
get to it without going inside the building.
“Second, searching the campus for clues is off-limits
from sundown till sunup. Any team that doesn't abide
by that rule will be disqualified,” Mr. Lorenzo went on.
“Third, the Clues Challenge HQ is in the lobby of the
Sports Complex. That's where I'll be with all the
equipment. And last but not least . . . Good luck!”
Nancy clapped along with everyone else. “Mmm,”
she said as the waiter placed the serving bowl on their
table. “That does look good. What is it?”
“Tiramisu,” the waiter announced in an uninterested
voice. “Italian cake soaked in espresso, with custard
and powdered coffee on top.”
As he passed out dessert plates, everyone grabbed
one—except Randy. He hadn't even turned back to the
table until the waiter plunked a plate down in front of
him.
“I, uh, think I've got enough material for today,”
Randy said, reaching out to shake C.J.'s hand. “See you
tomorrow morning at five-thirty.”
C.J. waved and gave him the thumbs-up, but he
seemed relieved to see the reporter go.
“It's good to get publicity,” C.J. said. “But I'll be glad
to have my privacy back after Randy's done with the
article.”
“He's a little pushy,” Ned commented, grabbing the
serving spoon for the tiramisu. He was about to dig into
the dessert but paused with the spoon in midair.
“What's that white powder mixed in with the coffee?”
he asked. “Sugar?”
Nancy took a second look at the tiramisu, then
frowned. “The coffee powder is dusted on in a per-
fectly even layer,” she said. “But the white stuff is in
clumpy little bits. It's like someone just dumped it on.”
“Check it out,” George said, leaning back in her
chair to look at the next table. “Their tiramisu doesn't
have white stuff on it.”
“These look like bits of pills,” Nancy said. “See the
round edges on some of them.” She looked for their
waiter, but he was already halfway back to the kitchen.
“Maybe we should ask someone in the kitchen about
this,” she said.
“I'll go with you.” Ned grabbed the dessert, and he
and Nancy followed the waiter.
As they entered the hallway, Nancy glanced into the
alcove where the telephone and rest rooms were.
“Hey!” She stopped short, staring at some spots of
white powder on the burgundy carpet beneath the pay
phone. “Do you see what I see?”
Ned dropped to his knees and fingered the powdery
bits. “It's just like the stuff on our tiramisu,” he said.
“But . . . what is it?”
“Hmm.” Nancy's eyes flew around the alcove— until
something on the small shelf beneath the phone caught
her attention. “Pills!” she gasped.
There on the shelf were half a dozen white tablets.
Some had been partially crushed into powdery bits that
were identical to the ones on their dessert.
“Some kind of medication?” Ned guessed.
Nancy scooped the pills into her hand, frowning. “If
it is,” she said, “someone spiked our dessert.”
3. Deadly Medicine
Nancy felt a knot twist deep in her stomach. “Someone
wants to make us sick so we can't compete in the Clues
Challenge,” she said.
“But . . .” Ned blinked in confusion. “People from
different teams were mixed up at all the tables,” he
said. “How could anyone make sure only people from
another team would eat the spiked tiramisu?”
“Think about it,” Nancy said. “No one was moving
around when dessert was served. Almost every person
at our table right then was . . .”
“From Omega Chi Epsilon,” Ned finished. “Except
Dede, of course.”
Nancy nodded, closing her hand around the tablets.
“That makes it pretty likely that whoever did this isn't a
Kappa,” sh
e said.
She looked up as the kitchen door pushed open.
Their waiter came into the hallway carrying a tray of
coffee and mugs.
“Excuse me,” Nancy said, walking up to him. “Could
we talk to you for a minute?”
The waiter paused, his face red and sweaty. “This
thing weighs a ton. Can you make it quick?” he said.
“Sure. Did you see anyone near the phone booth
about the time you served dessert?” Nancy asked.
“Or maybe you saw someone in the kitchen?” Ned
added. “A customer, someone who didn't belong
there?”
The waiter let out an annoyed sigh. “They don't pay
me to keep track of customers,” he said. “I just serve
food. Now, if you'll excuse me . . .”
“Wait!” Nancy angled in front of him, blocking his
path. “If you'd only try to remember . . .”
“What is it with you people?” the waiter said, rolling
his eyes. “Do I have a sign over my head that says
bother the waiter? Customers have been tripping me
up all night.”
“I'm sure if you . . .” Nancy blinked as his words
sank in. “Someone else talked to you?” she asked.
“I wouldn't say he talked to me. Practically bowled
me over is more like it,” the waiter corrected. “My
tiramisu would have been all over the floor if the guy
hadn't caught it.”
“What guy? Can you tell me what he looked like?”
Nancy asked. “Please . . . it's important.”
The waiter stared at her blankly. “Sorry,” he said,
indicating he wasn't at all apologetic. Hoisting his tray
higher, he pushed past Nancy into the back room.
“What a grump,” Ned muttered.
Nancy barely heard him, she was so lost in thought.
“Well, we don't know who spiked our dessert,” she
said. “But I'm pretty sure I know how.”
“Whoever knocked into the waiter must have
sprinkled the crushed tablets on top,” Ned said. “That
waiter's been serving our table all night. Anyone paying
attention could figure out that he'd serve the dessert to
us rather than to the other tables.”
“Exactly.” Grabbing her boyfriend by the arm,
Nancy dragged him through the kitchen door. “We'd
better make sure this gets thrown out,” she said,
nodding at the spiked dessert Ned still held. “And
while we're at it, maybe we can get a plastic bag to put
these pills in.”
Ned nodded. “Not to mention a dessert that hasn't
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